


in for observation

by M0stlyVoid



Series: Kinktober 2020 [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Doctor/Patient, Hand Jobs, Healer Draco Malfoy, Injury, M/M, Medical Kink, Power Imbalance, Prostate Milking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26900482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/pseuds/M0stlyVoid
Summary: Harry has never in his life been more grateful for a recurring injury. After all, this one landed him in the office of Senior Specialist In Charge Malfoy, and, well, Harry's had a certain Mötley Crüe lyric stuck in his head for weeks now...
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinktober 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948741
Comments: 37
Kudos: 457





	in for observation

**Author's Note:**

> the october 8 prompt for kinktober 2020 is— _medical play_.

Harry kicks his legs against the side of the exam table, a nervous tic he can’t quite control despite the stinging pains it sends shooting along his left leg with every tap of his heel. The normally-bustling hallways of St Mungo’s are quieter now, in the middle of the night, and any intermittent footsteps outside his room ratched up his heart rate until they pass by without entering.

He’d shamelessly taken advantage of Kingsley’s paternal affection for him and begged an exception; generally, Aurors injured in the field were seen by the on-site Healers, but the recurring nature of Harry’s issue and its roots in his childhood malnutrition afforded him some special privileges. One of those was off-hours visits to the Specialty Injuries ward, for his privacy.

And...another one of his _privileges_ swings the door open with an aggrieved sigh. “Mr Potter,” Draco drawls, fixing Harry with a sharp stare and a raised eyebrow over the thin frames of his silver glasses. “I rather thought I’d seen the last of you two weeks ago, when the salve appeared to be working. Has its efficacy been reduced, or are you simply here for the pleasure of my company?”

Harry can feel himself turning red, but he smiles as charmingly as he can. “ _Always_ for the pleasure of your company, Healer Malfoy—and I’ve asked you to call me Harry. And, no, the salve is still working just fine...or, well, it _was_...” He trails off and rubs at the back of his neck. “I, err, well. They sent me off undercover, I’ve been in Edinburgh for the last ten days, and I brought it with and was using it every day, but then there was a chase…” He peers up at Draco through his eyelashes.

“And Harry _Potter_ can’t let his team do the legwork as he was instructed _by his Healer,_ and simply _had_ to join in, “ Draco finishes for him, sighing and pushing his glasses up his nose. Harry’s stomach squirms. Draco Malfoy should _not_ be allowed to swan about the hospital in thin silver glasses, and shiny heeled boots that _clack_ on the linoleum as he walks the halls, and the lush, form-fitting, emerald-green robes of a Senior Specialist in Charge; and he _definitely_ shouldn’t be allowed to do all of the above with his hair in a sleek bun at the top of his head.

If Harry wasn’t already coming in so frequently for legitimate purposes, he suspects he’d have started making up ailments after that first appointment, when Draco walked into the exam room looking like _that_ and slagging Harry off so professionally that he didn’t even realize until he’d left Mungo’s, head spinning, stars in his eyes and the smell of Draco’s magic in his nose. Turns out he gets turned on when he’s insulted; he supposes he should have figured that out sooner, what with Ginny and...well, everything about her, really.

Draco’s staring at him, and Harry ducks his head, mortified to be caught swooning over his Healer. It’s surely something Draco’s used to by now, though, so he just smiles cheerily. “What was that? I was distracted,” he says, eyes landing on the curve of Draco’s bicep, clearly visible through the tight upper sleeves of the robe.

Draco sighs. “I asked, _Mr Potter,_ how long the cramp has been there, and what pain level you’re at?”

Harry thinks Draco’s ears might be turning pink, though, so surely that’s progress? He’ll wear Draco down for a date someday soon, he just knows it. He forces his mind back to the question at hand and frowns, tapping his fingers over the twisted muscle as he thinks. “Er...it’s Saturday, yeah? Oh—sorry for making you come in at the weekend, by the way—Kingsley told me it wouldn’t be a problem, and I didn’t want to linger and— Right,” Harry cuts himself off hastily as Draco’s expression veers from barely-patient to openly cross, “I noticed it when I woke up yesterday morning, then, while we were still in Edinburgh, and I’d say it was at about a two then, but over the course of the day it got worse, and then when I woke up to come here this morning...it’s probably at a seven, now?”

Draco slips his wand from his sleeve and runs it down each of his palms, encasing them in a thin layer of protective magic. The scent of his spell casting fills the room, chasing away the aggressive citrus of the auto-renewing sanitizing charms, and Harry lets his eyes slip partially closed and leans back on his elbows as Draco casts again, a diagnostic this time, and the vanilla and coffee smell settles around him.

A scratching sound draws his attention, Draco has pulled a biro out from his bun and is scribbling over a clipboard. “Your calcium is down again,” he says absently, underlining something. “And this cramp was building for a week before it was triggered by whatever idiotic sprint-chase you engaged in. You hadn’t been using it as frequently as prescribed.” He looks severely at Harry over his glasses, who cringes and melts in equal measure under his gaze.

“Well,” he starts, annoyed at how whingey he sounds. “I mean, it’s sometimes hard to remember, especially if I’m in a rush— _doubly_ so when out in the field, I mean, I don’t exactly have anyone waiting in my hotel bed eager to help to rub it in morning and night, do I?”

There’s a _crack_ as Draco’s biro slips out of his (long, thin, faintly glowing) fingers and hits the ground. Harry stares bemusedly as Draco’s neck goes red. Draco has been many things during their appointments: freezingly polite, funny, _mean as heck,_ but never clumsy, and never, _never_ flustered. Harry feels a tendril of hope and perks up. “Alright, Draco?” he asks helpfully, arching his back and settling further onto the table, hopefully displaying his toned stomach to its best advantage through the white compression top he’d chosen this morning. _Not_ for any particular reason, of course, and certainly not because it’s a little too small now, and the white is slightly see-through at his pectorals, and it shows a few inches of midriff. It’s too bad it’s not a few degrees cooler in this room.

“Fine,” Draco says, Summoning the pen back with a snap and glaring down at the clipboard. “Right. Well. Unfortunately, Mr Potter, a lack of an amenable bedmate does not preclude you from following instructions. If you ever want to solve this recurring cramp long-term, you’ll have to get into the habit, no matter how tempting it is to skip an application here and there. Consistency, and a firm touch, will be what does the trick here.”

Harry can think of a few other things that _consistency and a firm touch_ might help with, but he manfully remains silent as Draco scribbles out a few more things on his file, then throws it into the door, which it disappears through silently. Clearing his throat, Draco pushes his glasses up again, tucks the biro back into his bun, adjusts his robes, and renews the spell over his hands. “Alright, Pot—Mr Potter. I’m going to need you to remove your trousers, and...ah, and your pants, if they’re covering the location of the cramp, so I can examine the area before we deal with the pain. Alright?”

Draco _also_ never is anything but perfectly eloquent, and Harry barely keeps from a victory fist-pump. Instead, he hops to his feet and wiggles out of his joggers, hiding his smirk as he stands in front of Draco, hands at his hips. “I don’t think my pants will be a problem, do you?”

Draco is _very_ flushed by now, but he recovers quickly, even though his eyes keep darting down to Harry’s low-cut, neon-pink briefs—a gift from an ex who’d loved how the vibrant colour set off his deep brown skin, and how the waistline hit at the perfect spot over his hipbones to highlight his trim waist. Harry now owns about a dozen pairs in various colours, and he’ll admit that _these_ he did pick out to wear today on purpose.

“Right,” Draco says faintly, closing his eyes briefly as Harry hops back onto the table, scooting back and getting comfortable as the table adjusts to a half-recline. He parts his thighs slightly and raises an eyebrow at Draco, who appears to be frozen across the room.

Draco’s eyes narrow as he takes in Harry’s amusement, and suddenly the atmosphere in the room changes. He stalks towards the exam table, and Harry gulps.

“Alright, _Harry,_ ” he says silkily, and Merlin, Harry wishes he’d never asked Draco to use his first name. “I’m going to have to examine the cramp, which may cause some discomfort. Hopefully we can get it to dissipate without medication; there’s a spell that would serve, but personally, I prefer a more _manual_ approach, don’t you?”

Harry’s eyes fall helplessly to Draco’s hands, which are now hovering over his leg, fingers flexing slightly as Draco waits, eyebrow raised and a faint smirk on his lip. Fuck, shit, Harry suddenly feels way out of his depth. “O-of course,” he croaks, willing his cock to cooperate and not immediately spring to attention and smack Draco in the wrist. “Manual method. Love it. Sounds perfect. Y-you can put your hands on me whenever.”

“Excellent,” Draco purrs, and he digs his fingers into Harry’s upper thigh without preamble, and it hurts _so good_ that Harry can’t hold back a moan.

“Oh god,” he whines as Draco massages over the cramping muscle, flinching away from, and then towards, the pressure. “ _Merlin,_ Draco, that’s—oh _god,_ ow, don’t stop.”

Draco chuckles, and Harry has to close his eyes. His hands wander down Harry’s thigh, seeking out every area of discomfort and kneading and pressing and rubbing until it _burns_ the cramp away. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

Harry’s sweating, now, and regretting the long-sleeve compression top; a vest would be more appropriate for how fucking _hot_ his body is getting. It hurts, it hurts _so badly,_ everywhere Draco pushes his long, cruel fingers, but at the same time it feels _incredible,_ and he’s so lost in the sensation of the locked-up muscles slowly releasing themselves under Draco’s hands that he barely even registers how much he’s moaning.

He _does_ notice, though, when Draco’s hands creep back up to his inner thigh, all the way up near the crease of his hip, and he widens his thighs even further. Draco’s fingers are warm, and the magic barrier fizzes and sparks over his skin like champagne, and above all it’s _Draco_ touching him, _Draco_ pressing down _so close_ to where Harry would like him to be, and really, that’s what does it, thinking about Draco so close to his cock.

Draco’s hands come to a stop, and even though the cramp is essentially gone now, it seems abrupt, so Harry opens his eyes to see what’s going on.

Draco’s got his fingers resting lightly just under where Harry’s pants cut at the thigh, one pinky finger lightly stroking the fabric. His glasses are slipping down to the tip of his nose as he stares at—god, Harry is _rock hard,_ his cock tenting his skimpy briefs obscenely. The head is peeking out over the waistline and is gleaming with precome, staining the fabric.

Harry hisses and tries to bring his legs together, mortified, but Draco’s strong hands keep his thigh where it is, and he looks up and catches Harry’s gaze—and Harry almost chokes, because Draco’s pupils are huge, just a tiny amount of silver left.

“Mr Potter,” Draco starts. “ _Harry_ —this is incredibly inappropriate. I am your Healer. I could be fired for… _taking advantage_ of a patient like this.”

“Oh god,” Harry moans, shifting his hips, the air against the head of his cock unbearable. “Please, _please,_ take advantage of me, Draco. I’ve been— _surely_ you’ve noticed, I’ve been gagging for you for _months_? Please.”

Draco takes in a measured breath and walks his fingers along Harry’s hip, stopping to tap them lightly over Harry’s cock through the fabric. Harry has to close his eyes to keep from coming on the spot, but opens them as soon as he’s in control, because he doesn’t want to miss a second of this.

Draco rubs a thumb over Harry’s cockhead, and that fizzy sensation makes Harry tremble. Draco’s fingers are even warmer, now, and smooth, so smooth that Harry thinks that maybe—

Draco keeps one hand over Harry’s cock, rubbing slowly over it, but his other hand slides back to Harry’s thigh, rubbing firmly over the muscles. He walks his fingers back and down, and Harry figures out his goal and scrambles to part his thighs further, lifting his feet so his knees are bent, sliding down so Draco’s got room.

Draco slips two fingers under where Harry’s pants rest on his arse. “These aren’t even full-coverage briefs, you know,” he says conversationally, tugging the fabric and pushing his hand further in, fingers stroking over Harry’s crease. Harry whimpers through his teeth and tries to push down, but Draco’s other hand lifts off his cock and presses down on his stomach, holding him lightly in place. “Did a lover pick these out for you, Harry? Did he have you put them on and parade around the bedroom for him? And here you are, wearing them to see your _Healer_. You look like a slut in these, Harry, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—you’ve been throwing yourself at me for weeks. You asked earlier, didn’t I notice— _of course I noticed_. You come into _my_ office and make innuendos and bend over to pick things up and bat those eyelashes of yours at me—how could I _not_ notice? And now this...tell me, Harry, who else are you wearing these for?” His fingers are petting over Harry’s hole, now, and Harry’s squirming on the metal table.

“Nobody,” he pants out, lifting his hips, desperate for more pressure, more _something,_ god, he just needs _more_. “Nobody but...it’s just you, Draco, please, I need you to touch me.”

Draco’s hands still. “Really?” he asks, voice totally different than the low, meanly seductive tone he’d been using a moment ago. “This isn’t...Harry. Are you sure you want this?”

Harry lifts his head and meets Draco’s eyes squarely. “There is nothing in my life that I’ve ever wanted more,” he says firmly, reaching out and touching Draco’s chin. “I...I guess maybe I…”

Draco turns his head and bites Harry’s fingers. “We can talk about it later,” he says, and Harry drops his head back onto the table. “For now...I’d better make sure to examine you _thoroughly_. I wouldn’t want to be remiss in my obligations to your health, now.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, rolling his neck so he can stare at Draco, who’s got his Healer robe sleeves rolled up, his hair in that perfect, infuriating bun still, not a hair out of place, and Harry’s squirming in his little pants on the table, splayed out and vulnerable. It ratchets his arousal up another level, and his cock blurts precome out onto his shirt.

Draco tsks and begins to pull Harry’s shirt up his torso. “You’d best get this off. I can’t examine you with this in the way, even if it _is_ so tight as to be essentially nonexistent.” He peels it over Harry’s head and tosses it over his shoulder, then runs his fingers down Harry’s chest, stopping to pinch his nipples _hard,_ his magic fizzing and sparking in their wake. “Very nice,” he says approvingly, rubbing over Harry’s stomach. “It’s nice to have a patient who takes such exemplary care of his body; you really are as close as it gets to a perfect specimen.”

“Oh god,” Harry groans; Draco’s clinician voice is possibly enough to do him in entirely. “Draco, please.”

Chuckling, Draco gets his hand back under Harry’s arse, and this time one of his fingers presses into his hole, just up to the first knuckle, and Harry was right—whatever spell Draco’s got on them is slick enough to allow him to push straight in, no extra lube required. Harry moans loudly and pushes down, begging wordlessly for more.

Draco gives it to him. His finger slides in and out, slender and smooth and pressing in all the right spots, and he strokes Harry’s cock through his pants with his other hand, his thumb rubbing over the head again and again, occasionally pressing into Harry’s slit and spreading the wetness around. Harry thinks he’s losing his mind.

And then, Draco slips a second finger in, and turns his hand and crooks them, and they’re both suddenly pressing _directly on_ Harry’s prostate, and Harry howls.

“Oh _fuck,_ ” he pants out, twisting down into the feeling. “God, Draco, that’s so good. Oh _ffffuck_ I’mgonnacomesoon.”

Draco’s voice is absolutely _dripping_ with smugness. “Yes, you are. And then you’re going to come again, and _again,_ until you’re begging me to stop.”

Harry whimpers, and moans, and thrashes his head, and babbles Merlin-knows-what while Draco keeps stroking his cock, the pressure on his prostate unrelenting, and suddenly he’s coming with a shout, all over his stomach and dripping onto the exam table.

Draco bends down and licks a stripe of come off Harry’s stomach, and Harry shudders at the sight of Draco licking his lips. “I think you’ve got another one in you, Harry,” Draco croons, increasing the pressure and taking his hand off Harry’s cock entirely. Instead, he unbuttons his robes at the waist one-handed and pulls out his _own_ cock, long and hard and red, and Harry’s mouth floods with saliva, and suddenly the best thing he can imagine is getting his mouth around that cock, but Draco’s fingers press harder inside him, and heat is building in his thighs and spiraling up his spine, and his legs are shaking, and his eyes roll back in his head as a second orgasm washes over his entire body and his soft cock blurts out more come.

Draco’s stroking himself, and he keeps his fingers inside Harry, lightening the pressure but not moving them, and just when it starts to get uncomfortable Draco groans and steps closer, hand a blur over his own cock, and he angles it just a bit and comes on Harry’s torso, adding to the mess that’s already there from Harry’s two orgasms.

Harry’s exhausted, suddenly, and his limbs feel heavy, and all he can do is blink and stare as Draco squeezes the head of his cock, wringing the last out of his own orgasm, as his other hand slips out of Harry’s arse and smears the come around, rubbing it into Harry’s abs with a final moan of pleasure.

Draco summons a chair and slumps into it as soon as it’s close enough, leaning forward and resting his head on Harry’s thigh. They stare at each other for a while, until Draco straightens and with a wave of his hand cleans Harry’s stomach and thighs and removes the protective barrier from his hands.

Standing, he Summons Harry’s shirt and joggers and places them in his lap. “Well,” he says, and his voice is so richly self-satisfied that Harry thinks he could _almost_ get hard again. “I’d say that’s one of the more _productive_ appointments I’ve ever had, Mr Potter. Would you like to schedule another one at this time?”

Harry sits up, stunned and more than a little hurt. He thought he’d made it clear— but then his eyes scan Draco’s form, taking in his confident, relaxed stance, his still somehow tidy hair, his barely-wrinkled robe, and he shivers a bit.

Draco catches the motion, because of course he does, and he winks at Harry, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “Perhaps a house call is in order, Mr Potter? After all, I understand you’ve been having difficulties rubbing in the salve appropriately. Never let it be said that I leave any of my patients unsatisfied.”

Harry closes his eyes at the rush of _want_ he feels, then opens them and pins Draco with a look. “Your offer of assistance is...much appreciated, but I certainly wouldn’t want to, er...take away from any other _house visits_ you may be making,” he says cautiously, hoping his meaning is clear.

Draco’s eyes soften, and he squeezes Harry’s knee. “Nothing that can’t be cancelled...permanently, if necessary. Nothing I’m committed to keeping,” he assures, and the knot of tension that had started in Harry’s chest falls apart immediately.

“Well,” Harry says, unable to keep the grin off his face. “I suspect I’ll need your help starting tonight, then, Healer Malfoy. I’ll leave my Floo open.”

Draco nods, then heads to the door. He grabs the handle, but before he turns it, looks over his shoulder, and the look in his eyes makes Harry’s chest warm. “I found your attire today most conducive to your treatment plan. Please endeavor to wear something similar this evening.” With one last smirk, he leaves the room, gently shutting the door behind him.

Harry shivers, then slowly dresses, mind whirling. Oliver had also been particularly fond of him in jockstraps; he knows he has several lying around the house somewhere...

**Author's Note:**

> the tumblr post for this fic is [here](https://bonesliketambourines.tumblr.com/post/631464000588283904/kinktober-day-8-in-for-observation).


End file.
